Overnight Service

by Blakely, Lauren

  “Yeah, and the reason I called you. No offense, Summers. I’m sure you’re a good-looking guy, but I don’t want to get you in bed. Or Dick Blaine for that matter.” Then he flashes the grin fans seem to love. “But don’t worry—so far, I like you better than Blaine.”

  I rein in a cringe. “Thanks.”

  This is exactly what Haven predicted she’d encounter as one of the rare female sports agents.

  “I have a confession,” I’d told her late one night when we were curled up together.

  “Ooh, do tell.”

  “The way you are? So tenacious and fierce? Total fucking turn-on.”

  She’d grinned in her sexy, sensual way. “Is that so?”

  “You’re like a snow leopard.”

  She’d play-growled, then her laughter had faded and her expression had turned more thoughtful as she’d trailed her fingertips down my chest. “I have to be a snow leopard. There will be athletes who drop me because I’m a woman. Because they want to sleep with me. Because they don’t want to sleep with me. Because I don’t want to sleep with them. It’ll come down to sex. I hate that.”

  I ran my hand along her hip. “It won’t come down to sex with you and me.”

  She smiled, wrapped her body around me, and kissed me hard. “But with you, I like it when it comes down to sex.”

  “Dirty girl,” I said, then promptly forgot about the challenges she faced as a female agent and focused instead on her pleasure.

  And when she was with me, she let go. Oh, did she ever let go.

  I shake away the memory of our fling. It only lasted a few weeks. No reason she should linger in my head.

  Now, as I drink coffee with Austin, that conversation leaves a bad taste in my mouth, because she was right. This guy did what she’d predicted—dropped her for the worst fucking reason—and I don’t want to benefit from that kind of douchebaggery.

  Yet my boss at the agency has made it clear. He wants a top-notch soccer star for our roster. He wants to grow and grow and grow, and soccer is part of that plan.

  We sit down at a juice bar of his choosing, and I segue the conversation to the professional, focusing solely on what Austin wants in an agent, and when we’re done, he shakes my hand and says he’ll be in touch.

  I should want to hear from him, should want to sign him, but his comments are rubbing me the wrong way.

  Only, I can’t let her under my skin.

  As I head home, I text my good friend Jason. He’s my go-to guy for a ton of things, but especially any thorny issues. He runs an advice empire for guys on how to be the best at both business and being a gentleman.

  Josh: Question, asshole.

  Jason: Answer coming your way, dickhead.

  Josh: What would you tell Person A if he wanted to work with Person B, but Person B said shit about someone Person A used to sleep with?

  Jason: Might Person A be you? Just a guess.

  Josh: Gee. Maybe.

  Jason: And this person you used to sleep with, shall we call her Person H? For Haven?

  Josh: Whatever. Yes. How did you know?

  Jason: Because of all the people you used to sleep with, she’s the one you can’t get out of your brain.

  Josh: That’s not entirely true.

  Jason: That’s absolutely true.

  Josh: Advice, bro. Give me the advice.

  Jason: Here you go, mate. I would rate the asshole level of Person B from one to ten and decide if you can handle it. More than five is probably a hard pass. Also, as I tell you every time, you should consider—I dunno, call me crazy—sorting through these issues with Person H.

  Josh: Never.

  Jason: Or you can keep getting riled up by every mention of her.

  Josh: I’m not riled up.

  Jason: Nooooo. Not. At. All.

  Josh: Exactly. Because I’m going to put her out of my

  mind right now.

  Jason: Good luck with that.

  At home, I shower and get dressed for the office. Deciding Austin’s asshole level is less than a five, I do my best to put Haven out of my mind when I go to work, then shove her even further out of focus as I spend the day on the phone, first with some general managers, clearing up issues for my clients, then catching up with some of my top performers.

  I answer a call from Zane Jarratt, an X Games skateboarding star and one of my first-ever clients. He’s a zero on the asshole scale, and I love the guy.

  “Dude, you rocked that deal with Monster Energy Bull Rider drinks,” he announces when I pick up on the first ring. “Not only did they pay me for the ads, but they gave me free drinks. Free drinks! Can you believe it? That’s so cool of you to make sure I got the best bennies.”

  I laugh. “No one enjoys the perks like you, Zane. Glad you like the money too.”

  “Yeah, it’s enough that I’m thinking I can buy a small island for the wifey. But you did say once that was a bad investment.”

  “It’s a horrible investment. Put it in mutual funds, real estate, or your retirement plan.”

  “You’re right. I’ve got to remember your badass advice: no islands, no ostriches, and no yachts. Good thing I’m afraid of water, right? Or I’d be buying a yacht next. Wait. Do you want a yacht?” Zane loves to give presents. “Why don’t you let me do that for you to say thanks for this awesome deal?”

  “I don’t need a yacht. I need you to keep being smart with the dough you make. Also, the percent you pay me is my thanks, so thank you.”

  “Good point. And on that note, thank you for making sure I have these free drinks. I have so much energy now, I need to hit the ramps in my backyard skate park.”

  “Now that—that was a good investment.”

  “The best!”

  When I hang up, I feel mostly reset. Mostly better.

  At the end of the day, Ford raps on my door. “Question. What are the chances you’d want to go to Vegas this weekend for me?”

  “Are you going to be busy spanking your wife while the lawn boy watches?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess.” I lean back in my leather chair as he flops in the seat across from me, hoisting one leg over the side. Ford has a way of taking up all the space in the room. The man has a big personality, big mouth, big ideas. “Feel free to drape yourself across my furniture.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He stretches an arm over the back of the chair now.

  “Get a pillow. Make yourself at home.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. I have one hidden under your desk.”

  “Of course you do.”

  He clears his throat. “So, Vegas, baby, Vegas.” He says it like he’s Vince Vaughn—the only way to say it, really—and adds an eyebrow wiggle. “You want to go in my place to the sports marketing conference, don’t you?”

  I’m staring down a brick wall of a schedule. “No. I don’t. I have a ton of calls to make and back-to-back meetings. It’s nonstop.”

  Ford flashes me his best pretty please grin. “Suite at the Bellagio. First-class ticket. It’s all covered. You could take off Friday morning.” He rockets his hand like a supersonic jet. “Barely skip a beat.”

  “Seriously?” The airplane sound effect makes it hard to tell if he is or not. “My meeting list is ten-feet long.”

  “That’s because your star is so damned bright.” He’s got his deal-making smile on, and if this were anyone but Ford, I’d be worried what he was up to, giving me the full-court press as he continues. “Don’t you rep—hmm, let me think . . . oh yeah! The MVP for the World Series? Didn’t that bring more clients to our stables?”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s prime deal-making season. Especially for football.”

  “I know, I know. But the panel is going to get some great TV coverage. You want to keep that star climbing.”

  He has a point about visibility. Athletes often want to sign with agents who are high-profile, who don’t just turn up at the stadium but show up as talking heads on the sports shows, commenting
on the industry. Some agents have natural visibility, like Haven, everyone’s favorite ex-Olympian. Other agents need to work to keep up the profile.

  Still, I’m required to give my buddy a hard time, even if I’m now more seriously considering his offer. “What am I? Your backup?”

  “My understudy. My second banana,” he says.

  I grab the basketball from behind my desk and throw it at him.

  He catches it easily. “As if I’d miss if I could help it.”

  “As if I’d expect any less from you. Why do you need me to take your place?”

  He pulls himself up straight, parks his hands on his knees, and lowers his voice. “Listen, Viviana and I are trying to . . . you know.” He makes a rolling gesture like I should draw my own conclusions.

  I stage-whisper. “Make babies?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t want to take her with you and make sweet love to her in Vegas?”

  He shoots me a steely stare.

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “You brought it up.”

  He concedes my point. “Touché. Anyway, this weekend is the weekend, if you know what I mean.”

  “You mean, she’s ovulating? It’s okay. I took biology before law school. I understand the birds and the bees.”

  He waves me off. “And I know she’ll feel better if we’re at home.”

  I slide into my best Al Green voice. “I hear you. The woman needs home-field advantage.”

  He gives me the finger, as well he should.

  “Don’t worry, dickhead. I’ll cover for you.” How could I turn him down now, even with my stacked to-do list? Gravely I stand to salute him. “As God is my witness, I will do my part in getting your swimmers to her eggs. But if you’re successful, I want naming rights.”

  He gazes at the ceiling. “Why, God, why am I friends with this asshole?”

  “Because I’m going to be wingman for all the little Ford Grayson sperm. Since I am a rock-star friend, helping you out. Okay, give me the deets on the gig.”

  “It’s a Sports Network conference on sports marketing. And I was doing a panel on how to negotiate your ass off.”

  “I bet that was the name of the panel too.”

  “Indeed. Anyway, Sports Network loves you almost as much as they love me.”

  I raise a finger. “Question. You did want me to do your baby gravy a favor, or not?”

  He bows like he’s doffing a top hat. “They love you more, man. They love you like Boston loves Brady. There. Happy?”

  “You’re the man,” I say. Ford stands and heads for the door. But before he leaves, I call him back. “Hey, do you think women get short shrift in this field?”

  “Is Christopher Nolan the greatest director ever?”

  “Obviously.”

  “There’s your answer. We’ve talked about it.” He eyes me thoughtfully, shuts the door, and sits back down. “What’s going on?”

  I scrub a hand across my jaw, trying to process what’s gnawing at me. “I talked to Austin today about representation.”

  His eyes light up, and he mimes dropping a fishing rod into the water. He knows the big boss wants the shining soccer star. “Are you going to reel him in like a swordfish?”

  I sigh. “Don’t know. That’s not what’s bugging me. He said something about Haven. Well, indirectly.”

  He sets down his imaginary pole. “Ah, the Haven quandary.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “You think far too much about her, brother.”

  Ford doesn’t know how deep it goes. He wasn’t around at CMA then, didn’t join us from the West Coast till several months ago. And I don’t want to explain it. Haven wouldn’t want me to. Only Jason and my sister Amy know. I don’t let on to my colleagues that Haven and I had an after-hours thing for a couple weeks before she marched out on red stilettos and gave us all the finger.

  I don’t blame her for how she left. How could I? Management didn’t give her the due she deserved.

  “It’s stupid, but I still feel protective of her from when we worked together. Even though she hates me. Though not as much as she hates Dick Blaine,” I mutter, mentioning our shared Public Enemy Number One. He’s no longer with CMA. He left to start his own shop six months ago, and he’s in the running for Austin too.

  “Everyone hates Dick Blaine. Except his clients. They love him because he’s a shark and plays by shark rules.”

  “As in no rules. He hired Vaughn Channing away from us last year. Man, he was a cool cat. I swear Vaughn used to be one of the good ones.” The up-and-coming agent had played tight end for San Francisco for two seasons before an ACL tear ended his career.

  “There are plenty of good ones, present company included. And I’m sure Haven was a good one, though I never met her. And listen, I get that you feel like you have to look out for her because that’s what you did when you trained her at CMA. Because that’s how you are with your sisters.”

  I furrow my brow. There is nothing brotherly about how I feel for Haven. But I say nothing as Ford keeps talking, philosophizing.

  “That’s how you said you were with them when they were younger. Hell, you still look out for them. It’s the same with Haven. You think of her like a sister.”

  God, no. I don’t think of her like Amy, Quinn, or Tabitha at all.

  “But Haven’s a grown woman, just like you’re a big boy. You don’t have to be her protector.”

  “Austin dropped her because he wanted to sleep with her,” I say, and it still tastes like vinegar.

  “So?”

  “So? How is that a so?”

  “Because it’s his goddamn choice. He’s the client. I’ve been dropped, you’ve been dropped. You think our clients always open up about why they drop us? Who the hell knows? Men and women can be terrific assholes, and guess what? That means clients can be too. We don’t rep them because they’re Mother Teresa.”

  “Call me crazy, but I don’t want to rep assholes.”

  “You’re going to have a very limited client list, then. As long as he has no prison record, doesn’t smack his woman, and doesn’t drop his kids on their heads, you should evaluate him on his performance. You can’t control the other stuff. It’s a blessing when we like our clients, like how you dig Zane and how I feel about Cooper.”

  “Speaking of, how was his wedding?” I ask. Cooper is the poster-boy good-guy quarterback for the Renegades, and Ford talks about him almost like a little brother. “You and Viv were out there the other month, right?”

  “He thanked me for all his success in life. Every single victory,” Ford jokes. “It was great. My boy is as happy as all the clams in the sea, and that is my point. We can’t go to every client’s wedding. That’s not what we’re here for. We’re here to do the best we can for their career.” He points to me. “You focus on doing the best you can for them.”

  I nod, absorbing his advice. Austin was just being a guy, and he didn’t say anything out of line. “You’re right. If the asshole scale isn’t too high, I should let it go.”

  “Everything in business is about the asshole scale.”

  “I can’t let him get to me.”

  “Exactly. Take him on, go to Vegas, and focus on being the badass you are. Besides, I love your Vegas stories. Didn’t you win five large ones playing Texas Hold’em when you were there last year?”

  “Oh ye of little faith. Try ten.”

  He grins. “You lucky son of a bitch. Will you put a grand on red for me?”

  “How about I put a grand on you getting your swimmers to the promised land. How’s that?”

  “I like that bet. I like it a lot.” He leaves then pops back in ten seconds later, the expression on his face far too sweet for my liking. My hackles go up. “One more thing,” he says with that saccharine grin. “Haven will be speaking at the conference.”

  I groan. “You want me to suffer.”

  “Why don’t you use this as a chance to talk it out? Get rid of the bad blood you two
have?”

  “Why don’t we have trust falls and corporate bonding games too?”

  “That’s a thought. Also, thanks again.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I say, and he leaves.

  Briefly, I consider his idea but squash it just as quickly. Talk it out with Haven? I tried when she left. Or, really, I tried to explain what went down.

  She wasn’t having any of it, and I don’t blame her.

  But I did what I had to do at the time.

  I risked enough on my end too, so I’m all business now. Win some, lose some, move on.

  I fire off an email to Dom Pinkerton, affectionately known as the big boss, with an update about Austin, as well as some deals for other clients that are in the works, including a trade for Alfonso Jordan on the Renegades. I also let him know about my attendance at the Vegas conference in a few days.

  A few minutes later, Dom calls me to his office.

  I stride down the hall and find the Telly Savalas look-alike on his Bluetooth, pacing the corner suite—his standard MO. He never sits. “That’s right. Tell him if he tries this shit again, I will find him and wring his neck. Wrap my hands around it and squeeze. But in a loving way, to remind him to fix this right the hell now.”

  He smiles then turns to me. The call is over.

  I proffer a guess. “Reaming out a general manager?”

  “Nah. That was the florist. He got our orchid fertilizer delivery wrong. Asshole.”

  “Yeah. Some balls on that florist.”

  “You’re telling me. The wife and I need a very specific fertilizer if we’re going to keep winning the orchid competitions.” He runs a palm across the pool ball of his skull. “So, Vegas. Sports Network. You know what I hear about that conference?”